sometimes we like to sneak around, like we're

unnoticeable as pantomime ghosts against

white backgrounds.

it's then when it seems fun, and only then that

I know the real you.

the one who is a savage, pushing me against the side

of that day's utopia: a friend's basement wall,

an abandoned corridor,

even within the confines of

a blue, late model Chevy.



it's then when my four hours of sleep,

the fact that I'm failing chemistry,

the outside blizzards mean nothing.

I just like hearing your subdued laughter,

sigh, breathy gasps, and

feeling hands soft like kitten paws or the

sensation of a wave of luminous dewdrops against my back.



I can smell what you had for lunch,

even the aggressive cologne ...

(tastes like brown sugar breath and strawberry lips)

I always close my eyes, and vision of fireworks

pop up before I realize it's the middle of winter ...

but it feels like the Sahara ...



I know who you are when I'm here in your arms.